


Short Siberia

by eleanorb



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanorb/pseuds/eleanorb





	Short Siberia

There are seventeen flights of stairs up to the roof; two for each floor, eleven steps each and a final set of rough concrete treads behind a maintenance door. Not that the building is going to need much maintenance in the future. In two days time it's due to be demolished as part of the final phase of 2012 road improvements, which is why it's perfect. There's no real security, no cameras and access so easy it's a wonder there aren't rough sleepers on every floor; he's checked, there aren't.

Sherlock is always accusing him of laziness, when he's not making a comment about his weight or his political acumen, Mycroft prefers the term efficient. After all, his brain works perfectly well when he's sitting down. He really doesn't need village level amateur dramatic gestures or dervish spinning to get his point across, he has people for that.

Naturally, the disguise he's adopted isn't theatrical in the least. The moustache and shabby raincoat are necessary shields against recognition. He is acutely aware that London has more CCTV cameras than any other city in the world. His office probably arranged the siting of at least half of them, more if you include the ones in Embassies.

There are times, obviously, when one employs the services of a specialist in matters such as this. He could list half a dozen with no effort at all. But, he thinks as he opens the case, there are occasions when only the personal touch will do. It's not as if he's entirely unskilled, the Bisley certificates tucked away in his filing cabinet at home prove that, emphatically.

He really could assemble the rifle in minutes, blindfold if need be but, this morning he has time, time to do it properly, with appropriate care and time to wait for the target.

Ah, the target. He knows the man's name, his occupation, his family history, where he buys his socks; thousands of facts and figures which are all ultimately irrelevant. The man is simply the target. Giving in to the anger he feels, to the acute sense of betrayal both for himself and his family by humanising him would only serve to distract him from his purpose.

He loads the rifle, empties his mind, breathes evenly and watches the road below.

There, easy to identify, his clothes and manner distinctive.

Mycroft breathes out, then in and holds the breath.

Squeezes the trigger.

There's a hand on his shoulder hot and insistent. He lowers the rifle to rest on the lip of concrete that surrounds the roof. The target stops at the crossing.

"Don't. It's not what you think. I," there's a pause and an almost audible sense of panic-laced contrition, "was wrong."

Mycroft looks up.

Eight floors below, John Watson pauses to let a woman with a buggy get on the bus before him.


End file.
